“It will be postponed until my sister has recovered,” Rowan said.
“It will not!” Wellfield shot back. “I have suffered enough humiliation from your sister.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You would do well to reconsider.”
“And you would do well to control your household,” Wellfield retorted, stepping closer. “I will not stand here and be made a fool of?—”
His hand lifted.
Rowan saw it before it moved. He caught the man’s wrist easily, stopping the blow before it could land, his grip firm enough to make Wellfield’s face pale.
“Do not,” Rowan said quietly.
Wellfield yanked his hand back, breathing hard, his composure cracked beyond repair.
“This is done,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “The wedding is off.”
He turned sharply and strode toward his horse, the murmurs behind them rising.
Rowan closed his eyes briefly. “Damn him.” Then opened them. “Frederick,” he said.
“I will handle it,” Frederick replied at once, already turning toward the guests, his voice shifting into something lighter.
Rowan watched him go for a moment before he turned back and finally allowed his attention to settle fully on her.
Lady Emmeline stood exactly where he had left her, her posture still composed, though the strain of the situation had begun to show in the way her hands held her skirts a touch too tightly.
When their eyes met, the noise of the chapel, the murmuring guests, the tension of the morning—all of it seemed to recede for a single, suspended moment, leaving only her standing before him.
Rowan stepped toward her before he could think better of it.
“My lady… This should not have happened,” he said.
“It is quite unfortunate indeed,” she said, and though her voice remained calm, Rowan heard the effort it cost her to stand there with dignity while half the chapel seemed ready to turnherinto gossip. “But I must hurry to my own wedding, Your Grace.”
“You will not go alone,” Rowan said at once.
Her brows drew together. “Your Grace, that is really not necessary.”
“It is,” he replied, his tone leaving little room for argument. “My men took you off your route. I will accompany you and explain the matter to your father myself.”
Before she could answer, her carriage driver, who had remained near the steps in growing unease, cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I am perfectly capable of seeing my lady safely to the proper chapel.”
Rowan turned his head toward him. “I do not doubt it. But this is a matter of duty now.” His gaze shifted back to Emmeline. “Youwere brought here because of my household. I will make amends for that myself.”
“It was only a mistake,” she said, though there was hesitation in it now. “You need not trouble yourself further.”
“I will trouble myself exactly as much as the situation requires.”
She fell silent, her fingers knotting in her skirts before forcing themselves to let go. She looked at him, and the heat in her gaze struck the coldness that had taken root in him that morning, melting it where it stood.
“Very well,” she said at last.
Rowan inclined his head once. “Good.”
The carriage had been moving for several minutes before Emmeline found the courage to look away from the passing trees.
The Duke sat opposite her, broad-shouldered and silent, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. His jaw was locked so tightly that even the shadow of his beard could not soften it.
